Ontreto

by Peter Crawley

  And with that, he holds out his hand for Ric to shake.

  “Ciao, Nino. E grazie.”

  “No, my friend,” Nino replies, “it is I who should thank you. You force me to question my memory; in this way I recall many happy times.”

  He leaves the old man sitting beneath the bearded figure of the patron saint of the island and strolls across the Corta in the warm evening air.

  Sandro is nowhere to be seen and Ric reasons it is probably because he is sleeping off the antipasti.

  Giuliana is dawdling by the café. She shoots him a mischievous grin as he walks towards her. But, after the foolishness of the evening before, he decides it would be in his better interest not to encourage her, so he acknowledges her with a brief smile and walks on by. She pouts, playfully. Her uncle, the stern-faced café owner, barks at her and throws Ric a menacing glance.

  The African women are sitting, toying with their children outside their shop halfway up the rise of the Garibaldi. They smile broadly as he steps between them. The narrow vico swallows him and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

  Ric turns left and right and comes upon the alley which leads along to the monolocale Marcello is so generously loaning him.

  As he reaches the door, he is aware of a figure rounding the corner before him. The man has purpose and does not break his stride as he approaches.

  Once again, Ric feels the hairs on his arms and his neck stand up and he hesitates before bending to retrieve his key from beneath the flower pot. He will have to turn side-on to the man to let him past, but there is something about his gait and poise that tells Ric he is not about to pass him by casually.

  The man is only a couple of paces away when he draws something from his pocket and raises his arm to strike Ric.

  Not having the room to square up and set his feet, Ric has to crouch to avoid the blow. The cosh comes down heavily on his left shoulder and knocks him off balance.

  He tries to grab the man’s arm, misses and the cosh comes down very swiftly a second time.

  There is little else Ric can do but launch himself at his assailant. As he does so, he leads with the heel of his right palm and punches upwards towards the man’s throat. He doesn’t connect though; he merely catches him on the side of his neck. But the blow carries sufficient force to drive the man backwards and upwards, unbalancing him.

  Ric follows on with another blow to the man’s solar plexus, which does connect.

  The man gasps, winded, and staggers back.

  Inclined to maintain his advantage, Ric is about to slam his fist into the man’s chest, when he is aware of footsteps behind him.

  Knowing he is now trapped in the alley, he turns, grabbing the rubbish bin of the house opposite, and half throws, half pushes the bin at the approaching man’s feet.

  The second man stumbles over the garbage bin and falls heavily. But, in the breathing space, his original attacker has gathered himself and lands a heavy blow to Ric’s kidneys.

  The punch stings and stands him up. With nowhere to go and understanding that he must finish the brawl sooner or risk being worn down by fighting on two fronts, he kicks out at the inside of the first man’s knee and, when he doubles, Ric clasps his hands and delivers him an upward cuff that smashes into the side of his head, bending him up over backwards.

  The man behind Ric has regained his poise and throws himself forward, but rather than retreat, which is what the man expects him to do, Ric plants his feet and steps back to thrust his left elbow hard into the oncoming man’s chest, using his right arm to drive home the weight of the jab.

  The second attacker recoils and he too staggers back.

  Ric, though, is not finished and knows he must press home his advantage before either of the men can recover. So he steps over the bin and delivers the fellow a short arm to his face and an uppercut to his jaw. The second man slides down awkwardly, reaching out to the wall of the alley in the vain hope of preventing himself from crashing to the ground.

  Ric stands his ground now, turning to face the door of the monolocale, watching and waiting for the slightest movement that might tell him the men have not had sufficient.

  They stagger to their feet, linger for a moment, deciding, then turn and run off in opposite directions down the vico.

  Ric waits and listens: all he can hear is the thumping of his heart and the coldly laboured rasp of his breathing. His ribs are viciously sore and his shoulder feels as though it has parted company from his chest.

  He hangs on to the wall until he can no longer hear their footsteps.

  “Now,” he coughs as he bends down very slowly to remove the key from beneath the flower pot, “let’s try that again, shall we?”

  31

  For the second morning running Ric is woken by a noise from downstairs; someone is knocking on his door. But when he goes to haul himself out of bed, he is shot through with pain. His shoulder feels as though it is constructed with shards of glass and the cramps around his lower back are all but crippling.

  There is another loud report from downstairs and he can hear a murmured conversation from the alley below his window.

  Finally, he manages to lift his feet off the bed and struggle upright. As he does so, he hears a louder, more impatient rattling of the door.

  Ric glances out into the vico: a policeman wearing a blue jacket and white cap stands beside a man sporting a grey hat. If the uniform isn’t enough to convince Ric he is in some kind of trouble, the gun the policeman has holstered does.

  “Per favore, Signore,” demands the poliziotto. “Aprire la porta.”

  Ric climbs very gently into his clothes. The bruise above his shoulder is extremely tender and the discomfort around his ribs means he can move only gingerly. He wonders whether the arrival of the policemen is related to last night’s scuffle.

  The policeman bangs on his door once more.

  “Un momento,” Ric shouts, in an effort to curb the policeman’s enthusiasm.

  When he eases the wooden door back, he is confronted by a uniformed giant and a suited dwarf. And while the poliziotto adopts the countenance of a man who doesn’t like to be kept waiting, the dwarf next to him is all patience and virtue.

  There is something about the shorter of the men that tells Ric he is not in any imminent, physical danger. Perhaps it is the way the man slouches a little; his lips sloping down in curious symmetry with his shoulders. Or perhaps it is his rather put-upon demeanour; an air which is very much at odds with his sharply-tailored suit, but one which suggests he’d really rather be elsewhere other than standing outside Ric’s monolocale. Or perhaps it is the man’s diminutive form, in as much that even if he does intend to threaten Ric with some form of harm, he is so vertically challenged that the giant beside him will have to lift him up if he is to reach Ric’s nose. He is wearing a grey Homburg and funereal tie and he is the man Ric acknowledged in the Corso Vittorio the previous afternoon.

  He stares and waits, but the little man isn’t eager to explain or justify his presence.

  Then the face recognition computer in his mind registers that he has seen Ric before. “Ah, so we already know each other. That is good.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I guess you’d better come in.”

  The pair of them do! The small, suited man removes his hat and takes a seat at the kitchen table; the taller of the two lingers by the door.

  When the silence has continued for long enough, Ric walks to the sink at the back and examines his face in the mirror on the shelf. There is no doubt he looks a mess; the creases in his shirt match the furrows of his face and the plaster at his right temple has come off during the night, leaving a residue of dried blood on his forehead and cheek.

  There is no doubt the man is the policeman Ric remembers Sandro telling him about; the strange, little man who took charge in the moments after Candela’s shooting. And as he washes and dries his face, Ric reaches the conclusion that the previous evening’s ruckus is probably not worth
y of such attention. “Do you mind me asking who you are?”

  “No, not at all. I am Tommaso Talaia. Commissario Talaia to most people. Forgive my intrusion and for making myself known to you in such a brutal fashion so early in the morning.”

  He glances at his watch, “Well, perhaps not so early,” and smiles, briefly. “But, as you probably know, people here have little else to occupy their time but idle talk and for the moment I would prefer it if we kept our conversation… let us say, discreet.” He pauses and waits. “But now that I have introduced myself, let me ask you who you are.”

  Ric pauses to think, unsure how to answer and so says, “Just a guy doing a bit of sailing in a boat that isn’t, for the moment, sea worthy.”

  The Commissioner smiles and asks, “May I see your passport?”

  “Sure,” he replies, and he reaches into the back pocket and puts the passport on the table.

  Talaia sighs and sits forward, studying Ric’s face, before reaching over. He deftly flicks open the passport and examines the photo page, taking his time.

  There is little Ric can do but wait, “Coffee, Commissario?”

  Talaia looks up, looks back at the photo and looks up again. He sighs as though the world is full of idiots and too much of his time is taken up in dealing with them.

  Eventually, he sits back and smiles again, “Yes, please. That would be very acceptable.” He turns to glance at his assistant who, in turn, vacates the room.

  “I find it better to talk over a cup of coffee, don’t you?” Talaia asks. “Although I never understood why the expression is that one uses a drink to break the ice; surely hot liquid can only melt ice, not break it? That would be more subtle, would it not?”

  Ric fills the kettle and lights the stove. “Well, I’m sure you know how the British prefer to chat over a cup of something, Commissario.”

  He nods, “Oh, yes, I do,” he studies the passport briefly once more, “Mr… Ross. Or may I call you Richard?”

  “You can call me what you like, Commissario. It’s your country.”

  “Mmm,” he murmurs, “no, I don’t think it is. When one looks closely at history, one is drawn to the conclusion that it is only a fool who believes his country really belongs to him. And Garibaldi was no different from the politicians of the modern day; he also was an opportunist.” The Commissario pauses, thinking. “Oh, by the way, did you know, Garibaldi once worked in a candle factory on Staten Island in New York?”

  “No,” the kettle begins to boil, “I didn’t know that.” But the reference to candles is not lost on Ric.

  “It is true,” Talaia states with some certainty. “But then Garibaldi was born in France and went about his business all over the world before returning to finish the Risorgimento which, in real terms, Alighieri had started in the Middle Ages. You know, I find it interesting that Bonaparte had Italian parents and Garibaldi was born in France. It casts their true identity into doubt, don’t you think? They remind me of the new-age of rugby players.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, they choose their nationality by the country in whose team they believe they can exert most influence.”

  “I never looked at it that way,” Ric replies as he pours out the coffee.

  “Ah, you should,” the Commissioner suggests. “You should. It is important to consider carefully when choosing both your nationality and your identity.”

  “Well, I’m probably past making a living as a sportsman, so what’s there to choose? Anyway, I didn’t think rugby was played down here in the south.”

  At this, Talaia smiles, sheepishly. “Yes, of course, you are right. Although I am originally from Naples, but I have been working in the north for some years. They like their rugby in the north; it is very different to down here in the south. Like most places, the north is not without its corruptions, but it is perhaps not so… not so feudal.” He pauses. “No, this is not the right word. Per favore, help me, please. What is the correct word for when things are shared only between the family and not outside. Do you know this word?”

  “Incestuous?”

  Talaia stares at the table top. “Yes,” he says, hesitating, “in a way. But this implies a more physical relationship. I mean the blood that ties the families together. It is no matter; the word will come to me.” He examines the passport again. “And this passport confirms what you say is true. You are, like me, over the hill as far as making a career out of sport is concerned.” He pauses and sighs again. “I hope you will forgive me for saying this, Mr Ross–”

  “Ric. Please call me Ric, Commissario, everyone does. There’s no reason why you should be any different.”

  He nods, politely. “Well, that is kind of you to want to talk informally, but for now, let us keep this official. Forgive me for saying this, Mr Ross, but you look a little… corrupted.” The Commissioner chuckles and indicates his own forehead.

  “This?” Ric replies, fingering gently the wound above his right eye: “Boating injury: forgot to duck.”

  Commissioner Talaia smiles, “Yes, sailing can be a dangerous hobby. So, tell me, Ric, how long have you been here?”

  Ric thinks, “Four, maybe five days; I forget exactly. Lipari seems to be such a timeless place.”

  “And what brings you to the Isle of Winds?”

  Now it is Ric’s turn to chuckle, “Pretty much what brings every sailboat to Lipari, Commissario: the wind.”

  “An ill wind, it would seem.”

  “How so?”

  “Well,” Talaia considers, “your boat has dealt you an injury and you have the misfortune to be living on the land. Most sailors, if you will forgive me for stating the obvious, stay on their sailboats.”

  “My yacht, the Mara, is at a yard in Canneto; a few mechanical repairs that require attention before I can continue my trip.”

  “Your trip to?”

  “Oh, just taking some time-out; not going anywhere in particular; I thought maybe around the coast to the Adriatic. I don’t know this part of the world well, so how better to get to know it than by sailing through it. There seem to be plenty of people with the same idea.”

  Talaia nods, knowingly. “It is true. This is a good way to get to know places.” He sips his coffee and murmurs his appreciation before leaning forward across the table. “Let me ask you, Ric, where have you come from? Where were you before arriving here?”

  “Sardinia: Cagliari the Costa Smeralda.”

  “And before that?”

  “Corsica, where I bought the Mara. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Do you know many people here, Ric?”

  “I’ve got to know a couple: the man who’s fixing my yacht, a couple of people around town. Seem like a nice bunch to me. Why?”

  Commissioner Talaia studies Ric for a few seconds before finishing his coffee and sitting back. “You know, Ric, a man was murdered here the evening before last?”

  “Couldn’t help but hear about it.”

  “You know, this man was an important man with, how would you say, political ambitions?”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Naturally, when a politician comes to Lipari and is murdered, we, the police, take a special interest in those people who have recently appeared on the island.”

  “Naturally. But what you need to understand, Commissario, is that I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the wind and the fact that my yacht needs repairs. And, I’m sure it won’t have escaped your powers of deduction that if I did have anything to do with this politician’s murder, I’d be long gone by now.”

  Talaia nods. “Yes, of course, that would be logical, Ric. But I have found during my many years as a detective, and particularly when dealing with criminals in this part of the world, that perpetrators of certain crimes are in the habit of hiding where most people can see them. It is a way they have of pretending to the authorities they could have nothing to do with their crimes.” He considers his logic for a moment, before continuing. “That is unless they ar
e the type of criminal who wants everyone to know what they are capable of; a form of self-advertisement, a desire for prestige.”

  “Mafia?”

  “Precisely,” he nods again. “You see, Ric, I am from Naples. In Naples we have the Camorra; they are nothing more than gangsters; sometimes sophisticated, sometimes not. In Calabria there are ‘Ndrangheta, in Apulia – Sacra Corona Unita, and in Sicily it is a little crowded, with the Cosa Nostra and Stidda enjoying a form of mutual disrespect. They have many bad things in common and one of them is that they like to be known among the local communities for what they achieve through their violence. I believe, if you like, they seek a form of kudos through it. A strange form of public relations, I grant you, but nevertheless one that is effective in cementing their position, their status in the hierarchy of their profession.”

  There is the sharp white noise of a radio communication from beyond the front door. The poliziotto calls, “Commissario?”

  “Si,” Talaia replies, “un momento.” He turns his attention back to Ric. “However, on occasion, these organisations have been known to import professionals for their purposes, especially when their crimes are of a sensitive nature, politically. Signor Candela was perhaps a figure who would warrant such a strategy. So I must ask you where you were the evening he was murdered?”

  “Curiously enough, Commissioner, I was out fishing.”

  Talaia raises an eyebrow and purses his lips. “Fishing?” he repeats, “Alone or with someone?”

  “Signor Maggiore: the man who’s fixing my yacht, which is in his yard and which is, as I’ve told you, in Canneto. And curiously, it was while fishing with Signor Maggiore that I received this injury to my forehead.” And as he says it, the pains in his shoulder and ribs demand similar recognition. He shifts in his seat.

  “I thought you said your injury was a sailing accident.”

  “I did. We were out in Signor Maggiore’s boat fishing.”

  “And exactly where were you fishing?”

  “About a mile, give or take, off the little bay at Portinente.”